


The Aristocrat in the Parlour

by berlynn_wohl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, First Time, Kink Meme, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omegaverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-30
Updated: 2011-09-30
Packaged: 2017-10-26 09:29:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A part of Sherlock wanted John to do what alphas do so that he could do what omegas do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Aristocrat in the Parlour

This is a fill for a [prompt on the kinkmeme](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/11848.html?thread=60970824#t60970824): “Sherlock's secretly an omega who prefers living as an alpha. But then Alpha!John moves in…” (Click on the link to read the entire prompt.)

   
   
 **1.**  
   
John leaned close to the door and gave a knock. “Sherlock? That’s enough beauty sleep.” The doorknob was a bit loose, and made a clicking sound the moment he touched it. “Come down and see Les--”  
   
From within came a voice so panicked, it sent a chill down John’s spine. “Don’t come in!”  
   
John shook off the shiver and chuckled. “What, have you got a mud-mask and hair curlers in, or something?”  
   
“ _Do not open the door, John_.”  
   
“Alright, I won’t interrupt your bizarre wanking ritual. But Lestrade’s downstairs.”  
   
“Tell him I’ll be there shortly.” The voice was calmer now.  
   
John shrugged at Lestrade as he returned to the sitting room. “Don’t know why he gets so tetchy about me being around him when he’s just got up in the morning.”  
   
“Maybe he’s got an omega up there. I had this feeling when I came in, like I can smell omega, maybe…?” Betas could detect omegas just as easily as alphas could. They just didn’t care much.  
   
“Don’t be ridiculous. Sherlock’s a bloody monk. The worst alpha ever. Sometimes I do get a whiff of omega around here, but you know, we get clients in and out all the time.”  
   
“Must be what it is,” Lestrade said.  
   
Upstairs, Sherlock fretted. He wouldn’t be able to get to the bathroom if John and Lestrade were downstairs. His special soap, however, was there with him, hidden in his wardrobe. He used a discarded shirt, the soap, and the remains of a glass of water to give himself a whore’s bath before he dressed.  
   
This had happened once before. Having a flatmate could be irritating sometimes. He’d have to come up with a better fail-safe.  
   
   
   
   
 **2.**  
   
The door was slightly ajar, so Sherlock must have been home. John’s hands were full of shopping, so he shouldered through the doorway and made straight for the bathroom, dropping the bags as he went. He needed a shower, immediately. “You wouldn’t believe it,” John said to Sherlock, whom he assumed was lurking about. “Right on my head. A fucking pigeon-- _oof_!”  
   
As John came barreling around the corner into the kitchen, he crashed into Sherlock, causing him to drop the flask he’d been holding. It smashed to pieces on the floor, the liquid inside splashing everywhere.  
   
John leapt backward. “Shit, that wasn’t acid or something--?” He looked to Sherlock, and knew then that, while it was not something corrosive or dangerous, it was something Sherlock was extremely upset to lose.  
   
“I hope a case didn’t depend on that…” John said lamely.  
   
“No,” Sherlock said, his face a mask now. “No.”  
   
   
   
   
 **3.**  
   
John woke to the sound of his mobile’s alarm. It was actually yesterday’s alarm, reminding him to get to the surgery, but he’d forgotten to disable it afterward. He didn’t mind; he always felt guilty about having a lie-in.  
   
He held onto his mobile, intending to plug it into the charger in the kitchen, and padded down the stairs. Halfway down, he began to feel odd. Energised, but in a sort of _bad_ way. Then again…maybe not _so_ bad…  
   
He walked into the sitting room, and as soon as he’d drawn a breath, the odd feeling intensified a hundred times over. There was a smell…it was familiar, he could almost place it, but it was overwhelming, a strength that John had never encountered before. “Jesus Christ, it smells like there’s an omega in heat in here,” he blurted. And without thinking, he began to rub his cock through his pyjama bottoms.  
   
Sherlock sat in his chair, legs folded and chin on his knees. He regarded John’s entrance with terror.  
   
John gaped. “Is it _you_?”  
   
Refusing to make eye contact, Sherlock mumbled and tucked his chin in further.  
   
John went straight to him, prying his knees apart, feeling him all over, breathing heavily into his neck and over his face. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered again.  
   
Sherlock shoved him away, but John came back with more determination.  
   
“John, stop it. _John!_ ”  
   
“Just let me put my fingers in your arse and see if you’re wet inside,” John growled. “Just one finger.”  
   
Sherlock fought him viciously, rabbit-punching him and trying to land a knee to the groin. When John reeled to one side holding his jaw, Sherlock did not waste a moment, but grabbed the poker from beside the fireplace and brandished it at John. “ _Get out_ ,” he said, like a thing possessed.  
   
Still vaguely aware that discretion was the better part of valor, John limped out the door, closed it behind him, and went down the stairs and outside to sit on the step. As soon as he was out in the open air, the smell had disappeared, and his faculties returned. He groaned, thinking of what he’d just done. Even an alpha who didn’t have the training and discipline he had should have known better than that.  
   
   
   
   
 **4.**  
   
John had never had a chance at an omega before. They were rare; maybe one out of two hundred men. They tended to be homeschooled after puberty, and were not allowed in John’s respective careers, medicine and the military, because their presence was so disruptive. Once in a great while he’d find himself in close quarters with one, but never one in heat, and while the scent was distracting, it was nothing that could make him lose control. John’s sexual experience was basically limited to a few betas, though he once spent an unforgettable night in a knock-down, drag-out fistfight-turned-fuck with another alpha.  
   
In fact, for the past few months, in the back of his mind, he had sort of hoped to maybe one day repeat the experience with Sherlock. Though judging by his reaction with the fire-poker, Sherlock was still a pretty feisty catch, despite his newly-discovered status.  
   
   
   
   
 **5.**  
   
Out on the step, John’s mobile rang.  
   
“I’m sorry about what happened,” Sherlock said. “But I had to.”  
   
“No, no, I’m the one who should apologise. I couldn’t stop myself.”  
   
“I understand. I should have stayed in my room in the first place. It came on quite suddenly, and I was afraid to move about. That was my first heat since I was a teenager.”  
   
John rubbed his eyes with his free hand. “I can’t believe you’re an omega. You’ve got everyone fooled, I assure you. The world and his wife have been happy to tell me all your worst qualities, but no one’s mentioned this.”  
   
“Trust me, when I was thirteen, I couldn’t believe I’d turned out an omega either.”  
   
“Does this have something to do with the flask I made you drop the other day?”  
   
“Very perceptive. That was a formula of my own design. It keeps me from going into heat. I’ve spent years perfecting it, but I made my first successful batch when I was eighteen. Then I left home, came to London, where no one knew me, and I’ve lived as an alpha ever since, with the help of some specially-scented mail-order toiletries.”  
   
“Well, and you’ve certainly got the alpha personality down, I’ll give you that.”  
   
“I have important things to do, John, and none of them involve being a sodding _brood mare_.”  
   
“Alright, you’ll get no argument from me. But if I ruined your formula, why didn’t you just whip up another batch before your heat came on?”  
   
“There wasn’t enough time. There’s a sort of…fermentation period.”  
   
“Ah. Well, I can’t apologise enough. If I’d known…”  
   
“You didn’t.”  
   
“Right.” This was getting awkward, but John didn’t want to get off the phone just yet. It felt like there was more to say. “So if this formula is so effective, why keep it to yourself? You could patent it and become a billionaire. Well, millionaire at least. Don’t know how many omegas there are…”  
   
“I _could_ market it, if that’s what I wanted out of life.”  
   
“Is that really how you think? Is the Work really, truly all that matters? If this formula were mass-produced, it would change the world. They could integrate omegas into schools, and into all sorts of professions that they’re not allowed in now. And all those days omegas have to take off because of their heat. Think of the lost labour that could be reclaimed!”  
   
“It’s definitely preventing labour that I’m concerned about,” Sherlock said offhandedly. “But my formula will be worthless in a few months, anyway. The MHRA’s about to approve a pill for omegas. It’s not powerful enough to eliminate all the outward characteristics of a heat, but it does suppress them somewhat, and it can make an omega nigh-undetectable when they’re not in heat.”  
   
“Sounds like your formula is still more effective.”  
   
“I haven’t finished. Those are only the side-effects. Theirs is a _birth control pill_.”  
   
“Are you serious? Birth control for omegas?” A woman passing on the pavement paused to stare at John, who gave her a sharp look and waved her on her way.  
   
“I’m looking forward to it. Yes, I can drink my formula and most alphas can’t detect me, but something might still…go wrong. It won’t be until they put that pill on the market that I’ll truly be free.”  
   
“Well, I’m very happy for you, Sherlock, but none of this is solving the problem at hand: I’d come downstairs in the first place hoping for a sandwich.”  
   
“Go on up to your room. I’ll put some gloves on and make you one and put it on the stairs. And I’ll be leaving for a short while. I’ll have Mycroft send a car with a beta driver to pick me up, so the place will be all yours. Just give me an hour.”  
   
“Put my laptop out too, yeah? And there are some bills on the table. They’re all set to go, they just need to be put in the post.”  
   
“I’ll take care of it,” Sherlock said. “And John. I’m sorry I hurt you. You know that…you know that I’m very fond of you. I…I think you understand what I mean by that. It was never my intention to subject you to this.”  
   
“It’s fine. Take care of yourself, and I’ll see you in a while. I…yeah.” John hung up. Sherlock’s words and his tone were confusing, but John attributed that to his unbalanced state. He was well chuffed, at least, that he’d discovered a way to get Sherlock to do things around the flat.  
   
   
   
   
   
 **6.**  
   
Sherlock opened all the windows, packed a bag, and when the driver arrived, he departed for one of his “safe addresses.” He texted John once more, promising to return as soon as he was sorted.  
   
Of course John worried, but that Sherlock had put himself in Mycroft’s hands was at least a relief. He knew that Mycroft would keep him safe. After waiting an hour for the sitting room to air out, he went back in with the intention of resuming his normal day.  
   
But even with the windows having been opened, he could tell that there’d been an omega in heat in the room, though he was no longer quite so consumed by the urge to plunder someone’s slick arsehole. Jesus, was this what it was like to have one of them around all the time?  
   
Unable to find the will even to retire to his own bedroom, John laid down on the sofa and masturbated irately.  
   
   
   
   
 **7.**  
   
Four months later, a package came in the post, in a plain brown wrapper and addressed to Sherlock. Inside was a prescription bottle, along with a wry note:  
   
 _Your advance copy. Not for resale. - MH_  
   
Sherlock read the instructions inside, noted the time, and swallowed the first Pill dry.  
   
   
   
   
 **8.**  
   
In the kitchen, John was pouring sauce and sprinkling cheese over a glass dish of pasta. Sherlock stood just outside the doorway, and John felt his presence, but said nothing. He put the pan in the oven, double-checked that he’d dialed the temperature correctly, then moved to grab his phone so he could set an alarm.  
   
Sherlock entered the room and stood right in John’s way, briefly holding his arms out to display himself. “What do you think?” he said.  
   
John saw nothing unusual. “What do I think of what?”  
   
“Of me. This is me after one month on the Pill. No special soap, no nothing else.”  
   
Feeling assured that he’d been invited to do so, John stepped close and had a few good sniffs. He couldn’t detect a trace of omega on Sherlock. He even put his nose right at Sherlock’s pulse-points, his wrist and behind his ear. Perhaps he lingered a bit longer at those spots than was strictly necessary, but Sherlock did not protest.  
   
“Remarkable,” John said. “Does it make you feel any different?”  
   
“I do feel different, but I don’t know if it’s the Pill itself or if it’s psychosomatic.” Sherlock settled himself at the kitchen table, and continued: “Even with the formula, you know, I was in danger of being...compromised. I was afraid of being an omega because I was afraid of sex, and I was afraid of sex because I was afraid of being bred. Now, I feel like there’s nothing left to fear. I’ve been wondering what it might be like to live as an omega. I’ve never really tried it. But now that I no longer dread that one particular aspect of being an omega, I might not mind the other aspects.”  
   
“Oh?” John tried not to sound too interested.  
   
“It seems like it might be…exciting. To live a double-life, instead of just plain living a lie. What was that saying, about how every man should marry a woman who is an aristocrat in the parlour, an economist in the kitchen, and a whore in the bedroom?”  
   
“Yes, but I believe the second half of that saying goes: ‘…but instead they end up with a woman who is a whore in the parlour, an aristocrat in the kitchen, and an economist in the bedroom.’”  
   
“Well, forget that part. The point is, I find the idea interesting. To be an alpha in public, and an omega in private.”  
   
John shook his head in disbelief. “Sherlock Holmes wants to be an omega,” he chuckled.  
   
Sherlock didn’t move or speak for a long while. He was radiating intensity, and John felt bad for having laughed. This was no light matter for Sherlock. And John knew better than to turn away at that moment, or interrupt Sherlock’s reverie.  
   
Eventually, Sherlock stood, and stepped nearer to John. He idly played with the collar of John’s shirt, seemingly too shy to look him in the face. “What I want, is to be _your_ omega,” he murmured. Then, returning to his normal volume and tone, he declared. “I will continue to be London’s most insufferably brilliant alpha.”  
   
The nearness of Sherlock’s lively fingers gave John a warm, energetic feeling, though nothing like the one he’d experienced that day in the sitting room. He said, “Does this mean you won’t take the formula next time?”  
   
Sherlock frowned. “I still have some thinking to do.”  
   
The alarm on John’s mobile went off. By the time he silenced it, Sherlock had glided out of the room.  
   
   
   
   
 **9.**  
   
John looked at his watch. It was two minutes later than the last time he’d looked. Stake-outs weren’t his thing.  
   
For all that Sherlock could be bored by stupid people, by the telly, by just about everything, he never appeared bored on a stake-out. This was likely because he could think in silence, and dwell on the one thing in the world that he never found boring: himself.  
   
And as in any situation where he had plenty of time to sit silently, he often began a conversation in the middle of his thought process, startling anyone who happened to be nearby. “I’m fairly certain,” he said, “that I’d like to try going into heat again. I only need to decide whether to make a batch of the formula, just in case. If I do, it will have to be in the next twenty-four hours, or it may not be ready in time.”  
   
John said, “If you’re thinking of taking the formula anyway, that sounds like you’re not so certain.”  
   
“It’s for an emergency. If an interesting case comes up, I don’t want to be caught in a hormonal quagmire.”  
   
“Fair point. But if you’re serious about trying out the omega way of life, then I’d say don’t make the formula. You’ll be tempted to take it, even if you don’t get a case. Just like if a person’s trying to quit smoking, they shouldn’t keep cigarettes stashed in the flat. They’ll know they’re there and just end up smoking them.”  
   
“I _do_ keep cigarettes stashed in the flat.”  
   
There was another long bout of silence. John wondered at what point Sherlock would decide that this would not be the safe-house that the killer would use tonight, and call off their vigil. He also couldn’t help but begin picturing a Sherlock who wanted to be treated like an omega. Who would, perhaps, _demand_ to be treated like an omega. A writhing Sherlock, glistening with perspiration, shivering with lust and begging to be--  
   
“This is what I’ve decided,” Sherlock said at last. “I won’t make the formula. I’ll just lock the two of us in the flat, and let what happens, happen.”  
   
Summoning up a casual tone, John said. “Sounds good. But before I agree to this, I want to be absolutely certain that what you’ve told me is the truth. You wouldn’t just do this with any random bloke who happened to be your flatmate for the sake of an experiment. You’re doing this because it’s me, because of the way you feel about me, right?”  
   
“Oh, John,” Sherlock sighed. “Don’t make me say it aloud. Don’t make me do something that’s against my nature.”  
   
   
   
   
 **10.**  
   
When Sherlock felt the first faint twinges, fifteen years of habit told him to snatch up his trusted Erlenmeyer flask and guzzle its contents. But, for the second time in succession, there was none and he was unable. Instead, he turned to John, who was on the sofa with his laptop, and said, “It’s time.”  
   
Remaining the picture of calm, John closed his laptop and went to lock the door. He turned off his mobile, then picked up Sherlock’s and turned it off as well. He settled into his chair opposite Sherlock’s. They had made a final, firm agreement, that they would wait it out, see what would happen, here, together.  
   
In medical school, the sparse data John had access to about omegas was vague, and even fully licensed alphas with private practices had limited contact with them. Omegas were treated by beta professionals, who could be trusted with them. So John was curious about omegas, as he’d had so little experience with them. He asked, “How did you know it had started?”  
   
“It’s in my stomach,” Sherlock said. “It’s like a churning. That’s the very beginning. That’s when I know it’s time to take the formula.”  
   
“And then what happens? If you don’t take it, I mean. How long before things start to happen?”  
   
“I’d never failed to take it, before this year.”  
   
“But what did you feel the last time?”  
   
“Mostly panic. I can’t really give you an accurate description of how it feels based on the last time, because every time I felt the slightest thing physically, it was immediately drowned it in abject terror. Perhaps that is normal for an omega in heat, but I doubt it.”  
   
“What about before you’d created the formula? What was it like then?”  
   
“I’ve no idea. I deleted those.”  
   
“I see.” John could have sworn that he’d had more questions, but they must have slipped his mind. He was beginning to get restless, like he had something he needed to do now, and shouldn’t just be sitting there.  
   
Then the scent made its presence known. As a result of having taken the Pill, Sherlock’s pheromones were not as strong as they had been when John had walked in on him in the spring, but they were still powerful. John would not want his Sherlock to be out in public smelling like that.  
   
Yes, he liked the sound of that: _his_ Sherlock.  Soon things would be changing for them. If Sherlock decided to stop suppressing his heats permanently, life would be very different indeed. Imagine Lestrade’s surprise, coming to the flat one day and being told by John, “Sorry, Sherlock can’t come out to play right now. I’ll be fucking him every forty minutes or so for the next three days.”  
   
“I just want you to know,” he said, his throat dry, “before I get carried away, that I’m honored to, you know, be here for this, er…momentous…”  
   
“Oh John, do shut up.”  
   
Sherlock could feel it coming on in earnest, now. His fingers itched to hold his flask. Meanwhile, John couldn’t sit still; his cock was stiff and throbbing in his jeans, and he pressed the heel of his hand against it.  
   
“Looks like it’s already having an effect on you,” Sherlock said dryly.  
   
“Sorry! Sorry.” John took his hand away as if he’d been burned. “I didn’t even realise I was doing that.”  
   
“I know.”  
   
“Jesus, that comes on quick.”  
   
Sherlock shifted in his seat. He touched the side of his face, then slid his fingers down to the collar of his shirt. “It’s warm. Really warm. Hot. I feel like...” He went for his buttons, one by one. “I feel like if I just take off my clothes, I’ll be more comfortable.”  
   
“Do it,” John commanded.  
   
“I shouldn’t. Perhaps just my shirt.” He managed to work three buttons free with shaking hands, then resorted to pulling the shirt off over his head.  
   
“I’m feeling something new, now,” Sherlock said.  
   
John was rubbing his cock again. “Tell me about it.”  
   
“It’s...” It was a difficult feeling to parse, as Sherlock had experienced it so seldom. “...It’s regret.” He wished he hadn’t taken the Pills. Or rather, a part of him wished he hadn’t. A part of him that wanted John to do what alphas do so that he could do what omegas do. But there remained another, more reasonable part of him, that grasped that the Pill was the only thing that stood between him and a wasted life of biological slavery.  
   
John was entirely beyond curiosity at this point. He didn’t bother to ask what Sherlock meant when he said “regret.” Instead, he ordered Sherlock to remove the rest of his clothing. “Show me your body,” he said, and Sherlock felt compelled to do whatever John asked -- no, _told_ \-- him to do. He budged up to the edge of the chair as he worked his zip, then tugged his trousers and pants down with one push. John hungrily took in the sight of Sherlock’s naked body. Every line of his form -- his lithe limbs, his pronounced hipbones, the straining tendons in his neck -- was directing John’s attention to the center of Sherlock, the core of him, the heaving, glistening chest, the taut belly, the stirring cock. Sherlock’s genitals were somewhat smaller than average, but this was a typical omega trait; omegas' penises were regarded rather like women’s clitorises: an organ serving no practical purpose, an instrument of pleasure existing only to entice its owner to engage in more sex.  
   
Rising from his chair, John said, “Listen, I feel like...I might say some things. I just want to apologise in advance for anything that I might say or do, that’s rude or rough...”  
   
And then, as if to demonstrate what he meant, he shoved Sherlock backward by the shoulders, forcing his behind forward, past the edge of the chair.  John grabbed under one knee to prevent Sherlock from getting himself back into a proper sitting position, and thrust the fingers of his other hand between Sherlock’s thighs and under his balls. After a few seconds of fruitless blind fumbling, his first two fingers sank into a hot, slippery, welcoming hole.  
   
It was the most incredible thing he’d ever felt, though he was feeling it not so much in his fingers as in his guts. This was what an omega felt like inside. It was marvelous. And John deserved this, he was _entitled_ to all these good feelings, because he was an alpha and that was the natural order of things.  
   
“I’m sorry,” he groaned, as his last shred of sense disintegrated. “I’m sorry I’m behaving this way. But really, this is your fault. You’re making me want to fuck.”  
   
Sherlock grabbed John’s wrist and pulled the fingers out of him, then turned himself over. His knees were on the edge of the seat, his hands planted on the low back of the chair. He tucked his rump right into the crook of John’s bent form.  
   
“God yes,” John said. “This virgin arse has been waiting thirty-three years for my cock. I see no reason to keep it in suspense a moment longer.” He needed only to unzip his trousers, and his cock dropped out and slid almost directly into Sherlock’s hole, with only a nudge to aim it.  
   
Sherlock howled, more from shock than discomfort. He twisted, struggling to make sense of the barrage of terrifying new feelings inside him.  
   
“Don’t fight it,” John scolded. “This is what you were made for.”  
   
Each flawless thrust of John’s cock sent a stab of pain-pleasure up Sherlock’s spine and down into his thighs, which rendered him effectively incapable of stringing two words together. This frustrated him, but he tried to communicate with his body, tilting his pelvis, pushing back, to indicate that he wanted more.  
   
“Yes,” John hissed, “you want it. You’re a good omega. Look at you, taking every inch of my big alpha cock. You’re a natural.”  
   
John’s strokes were smooth and powerful, but after the initial excitement, they became slightly less hurried. This was his now; he could take it at his leisure. He held Sherlock’s hips still, pulled almost all the way out, and waited for Sherlock to wriggle and try to push back. Then, he gradually loosened his grip, eventually allowing Sherlock to swallow it up. He did this over and over, watching all the wet, pink, engorged flesh merging.  
   
“Jesus, you’ve an eager arse,” he said. “I’m just going to fuck you again and again, until you’re too sore to go on. Then I’ll fuck you once more, so you’ll know who your alpha is. And then I’ll breed you, so _everyone_ will know who your alpha is.”  
   
Those words made Sherlock feel dirty and squirmy, but through the erotic haze, he still grasped that John’s seed was falling on barren soil. It was alright to want it right now, while his brain was soaked in strange chemicals. He could hardly breathe, but he managed a raspy, “Yes, John. Yes.” He was loving every second of it. He loved it when John’s strokes were too deep and it ached. He loved it when they were just right, and the blunt head kissed his prostate.  
   
And he loved when they were too shallow, and he had to work for it. “That’s it,” John said. “Bounce on it. Fuck yourself on it. Make yourself come.”  
   
Sherlock would liked to have gone on, but he had to do what John told him. He tugged on his cock until a new, sharp energy zig-zagged through him, and he shot a small, clear load onto the discarded shirt beneath him.  
   
“God, yes, I’m close, I’m close,” John said. “I hope you’re ready for my knot. It’s thick. You’ll love it. It’ll plug you up good and proper.”  
   
John felt it coming a mile off: a rolling in his gut that, as it split in two and headed for his spine and his balls, compelled him to thrust powerfully and at great speed. “Fuck,” he grunted, and each spurt felt like electricity.  
   
When the spasms had passed, he gasped for breath. He’d come so hard, his _face_ hurt. His knees felt like water, and all he wanted to do was sit, or lie down. But he was unable. His knot was forming the same way it had with the betas he’d been with; but betas didn’t clamp down on him and trap him inside whilst they drained his balls dry. He already felt like he’d come in quarts, but Sherlock wasn’t through with him. John actually experienced an instant of fear, being ensnared as he was. It was like Sherlock’s body was in charge now, and they were done when it decided they were done. But another, reassuring feeling washed over him almost immediately after: that he was an alpha, and for the first time in his life, he was doing what alphas were meant to do.  
   
Each time Sherlock’s arsehole clenched, they both groaned with the sweet agony of the contraction. “Can you feel it?” John said, with a hitch in his voice each time he was milked. “Can you feel your body making a baby already?”  
   
Sherlock was so confused. He wanted that to happen…but he _didn’t_.  
   
“I’ll bet I could give you twins, or even triplets.” John reached down to stroke the flat plane of Sherlock’s belly. “I’m going to fill this with babies. You’ll be so big and round, you’ll barely be able to waddle about, and I’ll still plough you every day, all the way up until you go into labour.”  
   
Sherlock clawed at the back of the chair. “Yes,” he squeaked, and felt hot and ashamed.  
   
John’s knot began to shrink, and he was able to ease his way out. Almost the moment he had, he remembered every brutal thing he’d said, and was mortified. He tried to take a single step backward, to get himself in his chair, but he failed and slipped to the floor. “Oh God,” he said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say those things.”  
   
Sherlock twisted and fell to his knees on the floor, then tilted forward, and finally came to rest on his belly. He didn’t feel quite like sitting down, just yet. “It’s alright. I knew that would happen.”  
   
Sprawled across the rug and unable to move, both men tried to think, tried to make sense of their own bodies and what they’d done. But they were still sodden with hormones, and coherent thought was too demanding.  
   
John crawled to close the distance between them, and Sherlock rolled a quarter-turn so John could cradle him. “How do you feel?” John said, his breath skittering across Sherlock’s neck and shoulder.  
   
Sherlock gave a non-committal hum, and John accepted that as an answer. Then, Sherlock admitted: “I could go again.”  
   
John turned his face away from Sherlock and flashed a grin at nobody. “Yeah, me too,” he said.


End file.
